


Salvation

by Ordinary_Magic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HG/SS, Marriage Law Challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 03:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18357242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ordinary_Magic/pseuds/Ordinary_Magic
Summary: How far would you go to save yourself?





	1. Silenced

Chapter One - Silenced

Screaming heralded Ron’s return to consciousness.

_Shut it!_

The savage shout pierced the grey fog in his brain. In his dreams, he fell into a deep, dark cavern. What truly frightened him wasn’t that he was caught in an unending pitch black purgatory, but that he couldn’t remember tipping over the edge, and he’d no hope of meeting an end, happy or otherwise. He cursed the absolute blackness. He cursed the ache in his gut that told him he’d woken up. He cursed the woman in the next bed who never stopped reliving the war. Even if he could cry out, his suspicion was that he might never stop, either.

An eternity later came a cacophony of rising and falling voices moving toward and then past him. Focusing his mind in the dark he could pick out words from the chatter over the unending, full-throated cries of terror reverberating through the ward. The undulating shrieks gave way to raspy grunts then stopped mid-gasp, replaced by shuffling parchment and the strong scent of peppermint.

“We can’t just dose her to sleep all the time,” Whiner complained. 

He could imagine the young man who belonged to that reedy voice glancing about to ensure no Healer was within earshot. Probably thin with an oily, pock-marked face judging by the astringent odour of Miss Penelope’s Pimple Potion wafting in his wake. The rapid tap-tap-tap of hard-soled shoe against tiled floor signalled his nervousness.

“Why not?” Cold Bitch challenged, her voice rivalling winter winds sweeping off the Scottish moor. “Gives her throat a respite with the Dreamless Sleep.” The contempt conveyed in her tone could etch diamonds.

“And us, too,” Fool-of-a-Boy chimed in, undeterred by her sharp tone. “There’s nothing we can do for her, might as well give her a break.”

“Give **you** a break, you mean,” Whiner snapped. “I think we should check with Master-Healer Dewberry. The amount of potion in her liver is close to toxic levels already.” 

“Are you certain?” Gutless Swot questioned, sounding as though she wanted very much to move on to the next ward — to patients without ethical entanglements.

“Absolutely,” Fool said with that note of perpetual cheer that made him want to take a Quidditch bat to the boy’s head. “Observe closely, Penitents,” Fool pontificated, his impression of the Ward Matron spot on. “Note the decreased level of consciousness, pinpoint pupils and respiratory depression….”

“Seriously, I think we should inform Master-Healer Dewberry,” Whiner maintained, lowering his voice.

“Don’t bother — look at her,” Cold Bitch commanded, followed by the rustle of parchment. “Professor-Healer Cuthbert clearly coded her as terminal. Whether her mind gives out from the curse or the potion poisons her, it’s only a matter of time. Might as well have some quiet.”

Heavy footsteps echoed up the stone stairwell.

“Cuthbert’s on his way up!” hissed Swot, effectively ending the debate.

Sounds of swishing fabric and muffled swearing echoed in his ears, all falling to a tense hush as the distant footfalls approached. 

The footsteps continued for another moment until: “Oh, it’s just you, Snape,” Cold Bitch sneered to the new comer. “Can’t spend enough time here for extra credit?”

_Snape? **HE** is here? How? Is he bringing me back?_ His thoughts raced while his traitorous body lay unmoving.

“Bullstrode,” an achingly familiar voice acknowledged. 

_Look at me!_ Whatever sanity he had now beat against the prison of his mind, the cry echoing through his personal darkness. 

A new set of heavy steps echoed in the stairwell approaching the open ward door. The air seemed to chill, as if in a Dementor’s wake, tainted by acrid greenwood and camphor. 

Cuthbert barked, “Right you lot — rounds were over half an hour ago. Back to the instruction hall, please.” His voice was gruff, suggesting advanced age or possibly caustic potion fumes. 

There was the hurried scuffing of shoes against the tile and rustling parchment as the flock of students disbanded immediately in favour of the ward egress.

Silence held, the waking world blending with his dark reality. Believing himself alone again, he began the ritual — ever hopeful of a change — working on moving a foot, twitching a finger, willing his eyes to open now that no one was there to tut softly and push his eyelids closed.

Cuthbert repeated in a softer voice quite near, “Snape? Rounds are over.”

The unexpected voice made him uneasy. Normally none of them lingered in the ‘lost cause’ ward. That torture was reserved for his family and Harry….

The reply came from above him now, “Yes, I know Professor-Healer Cuthbert. It’s just that he looks…” 

They were right at his side. He willed his arm to reach out, fingers hungering to grasp cloth… His mind raced — could they see he was awake this time? _Please, Please. I am here. Look closer, see me!_ , he begged silently.

“…just more **there** today. I don’t know how to explain it better.” 

He could hear the gentle smile, the one he’d seen so many times before the Bad Things happened. What he would give to see it again, to have it directed at him.

A crisp snap and flipping of parchment pages was followed by, “Never discount your instincts, Snape. You are one the most gifted students I’ve had the pleasure to oversee; but knowledge is not enough. Instinct plays an integral role especially in mind-body damage patients. As you can see,” he continued, his voice falling into a familiar lecturer’s cadence. “This one’s mind has been lost as surely as if he’d been the victim of a Dementor's kiss, only a shell of functionality remains. Soon his body will stop responding and his heartbeats will cease.” 

 

“I know, Professor-Healer.” Unbearable sadness coloured that simple statement. 

“I often see you here at this bedside after hours, I take it you knew the patient?”

He could picture the flush of embarrassment at being called out for breaking the rules. 

“Yes, Professor-Healer. We went to school together, fought in the war together, he…” the voice broke.

“Well, then, I am truly sorry for your loss. An old man such as I would not be your choice for confidant…” 

Amused scoff was met by quiet chuckle. The private camaraderie between the two was palpable. 

“You need to let him go. Whomever this young man was, he’s gone. His body hasn’t realised that yet but these vitals show deterioration. This body’s time is coming soon to release his spirit beyond the Great Veil.”

_What? Bollocks! Don’t listen to the old fool. I’m here. **I’M HERE, DAMN IT!** _ Every muscle strained in his mind, but he could not move so much as a finger. Envisioning his lungs expanding and contracting forcefully brought the unwanted tickling sensation back to his chest. Maybe they would see he was trying to vocalise. Just a little more…

“I know, sir. We held a memorial for him a few weeks ago but it’s so hard to believe. I see him lying here, _alive_.”

The tickling gave way to painful spasm and gurgling as mucus restricted his ability to breathe. He could hear the voices but not words.

A sudden heat and weight on his throat indicated preparation for clearing out his lungs. Gloved fingers firmly positioned his chin and the warm towel soothed the aching throat muscles. A quick command spelled the accumulated fluids up and out. As the procedure concluded his arm jerked and managed to flop out of the sheets. _Yes! They had to have seen **that**_. No longer panicking as his airway opened up, he strained to hear any sign that they’d seen.

His wrist was firmly grasped and carefully manoeuvred back to his side, the sheet tucked tightly to pin him in place. “Snape, please update the chart to show spontaneous reflex movement continues. Add two more doses of asphodel daily to the notes, and initial per me. That should counteract the spasms. I doubt there’s any pain awareness happening but one can never be too careful in this type of situation.”

He felt a flush of hatred at the murmured acknowledgement. _Look at me! Damn your eyes, old man. Don’t listen to him!_

“He opened his eyes again last night, is it so wrong to wish for a miracle?” The wistful longing intensified his own pain.

“Maybe this is asking too much of you,” Cuthbert mused.

Any protest was cut off sharply. 

“I’ve been very hard on you, Snape.”

_Stop calling her that name!_

“More so than any of the others.” 

“You’ve always been fair, sir. I’ve learned so much! I didn’t mean to disappoint you, Healer Cuth – sorry. I mean _Professor-Hea-_ ”

“Snape,” he interrupted. “What you need to learn **right now** is to stop under-valuing yourself. I am strongly considering pulling you from the programme.”

He could see in his mind’s eye the stark panic on her face at his sharp tone.

“And sponsoring you in the Healer-Trainee rotation,” Cuthbert continued.

“Hea- **Healer** programme? Sir! I-I don’t know what to say, they said we were not eligible to apply,” she sputtered. 

“A one word response shall suffice this time, Mrs Snape,” he said, amused. “Let me worry about your situation, and in anticipation of you making the _intelligent decision_ you may address me as ‘Healer’ moving forward. Would you like to administer the asphodel whilst I write the order for your transfer?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.” He heard the quiet clatter of spoon and teapot as she prepared the dose.

“And your place of residence is still the Refugee Centre?”

“For a few more days yes, Healer Cuthbert,” she murmured.

“A somewhat _indelicate_ question if you will forgive me?” he asked with a slight hesitation.

“Anything, sir.” There was no hesitation this time, she trusted this old, obviously blind man.

After a long pause, the Healer spoke so softly that it took every bit of concentration he had to hear Cuthbert.

“Should the Ministry register use **Snape** or… _Granger_?” The last word barely above a whisper yet it hung in the air as unwelcome as a shout.

He strained to hear her answer, his hope for any future hung in the balance.

“Sn-Snape. It will be finalised by start of next week,” she replied in a firmer tone, but matching his careful whisper.

Additional words were drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears. Unlike his ward-mate, his crying never made a sound.

A few moments later the astringent scent of medicated tea filled his nostrils as firm hands gently supported his neck and then dripped the spoonful of liquid in his mouth. The memory of tears ran from closed eyelids as the warm mixture carried the bitterness from lips to the back of his throat.

One dose and he could forget, if only for a few hours. Tonight he welcomed oblivion.

oo000oo oo000oo oo000oo

_On the afternoon of her sixth birthday, Ginevra Weasley got married. It took some persuasion for the groom to tolerate his wedding attire but at last the owl-sized cummerbund matching her best dress stayed in place as Errol patiently endured the ceremony. The tea party reception was attended by rag-doll Charlotte, a rat named Scabbers who was missing a toe, and her imaginary best friend, Liza._

 __We’re married now _, Ginny explained to Errol._ You have to love me forever and do everything I say.

_If only it were still that simple, she thought. Adulthood proved to be quite different._

Ginny brushed the cinders from her robes, mindful to use magic and not her hands. Being Mrs Harry Potter had its advantages: a comfortable home, political capital to spend, and a closet filled with the finest quality clothing. That did not mean the lessons of her youth were forgotten; every care was taken with her new wardrobe. The Floo connection terminated with a final roar of green flame and a hiss. Even before climbing the stairs she felt the house was empty. Hoping she was wrong she took a deep, fortifying breath before grasping the knobs and throwing open the closet doors. Empty space, bare hangers, and a trace of the cologne she’d bought him last Christmas was all that remained. Harry was gone. 

_He did it. He really did it_.

Ginny didn’t think the latest fight would be the final impetus to drive Harry to action. Yes, things were said that, although truthful, should never be spoken between husband and wife. Strip away civility and the damaged teens they had both been emerged. No one in her life had ever been able to see the real her, just Harry. And no one could wound as deeply.

It had only been hours ago that a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and an enraged spouse were waiting for her in the kitchen. 

“‘Morning,” she swept by him intent on pouring a cup of the strong, bitter tea he favoured. She could pick up the herbal tea she liked outside the Ministry offices on her way to work.

He stood at the table, staring down at the paper as if he was unable to comprehend the Travel Ban and Wizarding Protection Act headlines which blazed across the front page.

You _knew_ this was coming and you said nothing,” his hands were clenched into fists. “Bill was nearly arrested!”

Feeling uncharacteristically ashamed, she protested. "I didn't do anything wrong!”

“George could have saved Hermione.”

The fleeting sense of shame evaporated instantly. _Hermione. Of course._ Her eyes narrowed and she turned to look him directly in the eyes with a mocking look of concern.

“Saved Hermione? From her marriage to my _other_ brother, Harry?”

He flinched as if slapped. “Ron’s in no position to help her now. Face reality, for once in your life, Ginny,” he spat. “Your lot did this, not us.” 

“And when did we become ‘your lot’, Harry? Do you know who you sound like? Maybe you would have been better off staying with dear Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon!” Her face wrinkled in disgust, deliberately misunderstanding him.

Silence met her words and for a moment he glanced down at the _Prophet_ article. “You need to make peace with Ron’s condition.” Turning to face her he continued, “ _He is gone_ ”, he spoke calmly, though the colour had left his face.

“You’re wrong!” she stamped her foot, not caring if it made her look foolish. _How dare he!_

“And now the woman he loved is in custody, Bill and Fleur are fugitives, and George won’t speak to you. Even your father said, had his department been made aware of the proposed law, he would have told us - Ministry be damned.”

“This is to help us, all. Can’t you see how there’s no other way? He-Who… _Voldemort_ is gone but his followers are still carrying forward his agenda, bringing in allies from outside the country and recruiting people who want to harm us while we’re weakened,” she tried to reason.

“Find a better way. This is destructive and cruel. We have to be better than this,” he said, direct and to the point, slamming his hand against the _Prophet_ causing the people in the pictures to dive for cover.

“This is the path forward to avert another civil war, Harry. There is no better way. If you had ideas, the time to present them to the Ministry was long before now.”

Nauseated, he said, "I can't bear to look at you. I don’t know you anymore. Maybe I never really did if you can be a part of this insanity.” He strode past her toward the sitting room.

“Wait, where are you going? We need to talk about this!” she cried, following him into the parlour. 

“I’m done talking, Ginny.” Harry grasped a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantle. “I’ll be back later for my things.”

“But, where will you go? This is silly. I can find out where you are so walking away won’t do any good,” she raged, her fingernails digging into his hand.

“Even in the Muggle world?” he mocked. “As you so rightly pointed out, I grew up there and if I wanted to disappear, you could never find me.” He shook off her hand and threw the powder into the fireplace. 

“No, you can’t go like this…”she pleaded.

“Diagon Alley!” he called out and vanished.

Thirty minutes and a smashed set of dinner plates later, it was time to admit she needed help - again. Cursing the Floo block on the Burrow, Ginny quickly summoned parchment, quill, and their new owl. 

_Mum, I need you. Please hurry._


	2. The Alibi of Tyrants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The welfare of humanity is always the alibi of tyrants."  
> \- Albert Camus

Chapter two - The Alibi of Tyrants.

 

Harry settled on a weathered bench out of sight to the oblivious shoppers moving by him. The tattered overhang that shielded Fortescue’s outside tables provided just enough shade to assure anonymity and on a warm day like today he wished the ice cream parlour were open. So many storefronts were still closed, the owners dead or in hiding. There was less hustle and bustle on what should be a busy Friday afternoon in Diagon Alley with the new term at Hogwarts only a week away. Something was oddly different today, he mused. An older witch shepherded a group of teen boys in Chudley Cannons jerseys toward Quality Quidditch Supplies, but everywhere else he saw a mix of stylish wizard robes and waistcosts, with the exception of a few well-bundled young men standing in contrast to the unseasonable temperatures. Where were the witches?

Curiosity piqued, he glimpsed a thin face with delicate features under the hood of a heavy winter cloak, her body draped in bulky nondescript layers, eyes darting nervously, taking in everything around her as she walked quickly, her mannish boots scuffing along the cobblestone lane. Now that he knew what to look for, all down Diagon Alley he could see the same thing despite the day’s heat: hooded cloaks, dull-coloured layered clothes, full length robes or over-sized trousers and wizard’s footwear. A new style? No, he reasoned. Fashion trends in the Wizarding World moved at glacial speeds, if at all. The shapeless figures stayed in groups, their movements suggesting furtiveness, timidity. He watched the lone witch scuttle to catch up with the others ahead of her, apparently strangers. They accepted her silently, absorbing her into the protective gaggle with barely a questioning glance.

_They’re frightened_ , he thought. Afraid of attracting notice or being alone. Even that grey-haired witch resolutely leading the flying club toward the Quidditch shop had glanced about nervously. He lost sight of them as more men made their way to the sidewalks, lining the route from the portal to the Refugee Centre.

A bead of sweat trickled down his neck, suddenly he felt exposed, watched. The angle of the setting sun penetrated the shadows, revealing the black clad figure leaning against the wall of Madam Malkin’s. Severus Snape’s stare held no sign of recognition or emotion. He’d been told about Snape’s unexpected survival after the Last Battle, but this was his first glimpse of the man since that night. In fact he felt certain that had Snape not wanted to be seen, Harry would have never known of his presence. Something was very wrong, they could both feel it. Harry slowly nodded to Snape and then turned his attention toward the start of the street noting the presence of Arthur Weasley and Xenophilius Lovegood near the Leaky Cauldron’s portal wall. 

Reaching a careful hand into his robes, Harry slowly extracted his wand, making sure the action could not be misinterpreted and cast a quiet _Tempus_. 5:20 PM floated before him then dissipated in wisps of vapour. He missed having his watch, probably still on his dresser, forgotten during the hurried packing earlier while Ginny was at work. Glancing back to his right he saw Arthur tense, and with wand now out at his side, looking at the gathering crowd.

_They’re late_ , Harry thought. Normally the group with worksites in and around London returned promptly on Friday for the weekend, along with anyone newly apprehended for questioning. There should have been a message by now if there was trouble again. He did not return the wand to his robes. Across the alley, Snape was still in the same position, arms folded and appearing unconcerned, wand hand empty. Staring at him. Seeing he had recaptured Harry’s attention, Snape jerked his head sharply indicating they should cross the distance to the other watchers. Leaving the patio area he saw more adults, mostly wizards, gathering for the weekly spectacle.

“Virginal white,” one of the on-lookers sneered to his companions. “Whores and bastards, every one of them. Should have been locked up. If it had been up to me —”

“It wasn’t.” Harry cut him off, pausing to stare him down briefly before moving on.

“Bli-mey, that was Harry Potter,” his friend said in an excited whisper.

“Never thought he’d turn blood-traitor,” said another. 

Harry could feel their eyes on him but now was not the time to deal publicly with the hatred from the Ministry’s ill-begotten ‘reforms’. _Was this really the only way, Ginny?_

A brief swirl of dust rose for a moment, as if the very air sucked in its breath. Soft grating of stone on brick was followed by the emergence of a group of witches and wizards entering through the Leaky Cauldron portal. 

The white-clad protectees were accompanied today by Professors McGonagall, Sinistra, and Slughorn. Silence reigned, not one stone or curse was hurled at the group. From the day the professors volunteered to form a civil watch, violence against the protectees had decreased to an occasional shouted epithet. Wands out, the escorts did not take their eyes off their charges until the last swish of white fabric had disappeared into the Refugee Centre. 

The group following a few moments behind was paraded slowly down the middle of the street by men in brown hit wizard robes. Friends and family who’d gathered to see the newly charged people pressed forward only to be repelled by unfriendly jinxes. The detainees wore a combination of wizarding and muggle attire, some looking resigned, others were defiantly meeting the stares of the onlookers. 

Sudden movement behind the last group caught Harry’s eye. Arthur had grabbed Lovegood’s arm, holding him back as he laid eyes on his daughter, Luna, for the first time in weeks. She smiled and waved at him as if her detainment were an ordinary event. Charlie Weasley was the last person through, trailing the group as the portal closed. He immediately went to his father’s aid in pulling Lovegood away to talk sense into him. Violence would only result in more bloodshed. “I have her papers! I have her papers right here!” Lovegood bellowed over the now rumbling crowd gathering en mass along the street. 

Harry backtracked alongside the group as they continued the progression toward the Centre. The willowy blonde witch dressed in faded blue dungarees and a white daisy tee shirt caught his eye. “Hi, Harry!” Luna called out. 

“Good to see you, Luna!” he shouted back. Her smile was as radiant as the sun. Ahead of him across the street he saw McGonagall bid adieu to her fellow professors and waited in the partially-shaded doorway of the Refugee Centre, arms spread as if to ask, “And what now?” Snape’s mask cracked in an answering smirk as he trailed the final group down the street to join her. He was glad to see them working in concert again, as far as he knew no one else from the Order or Hogwarts mentioned being in contact with Snape. Not everything could be forgiven quickly, or sometimes at all. Harry took a deep breath and prepared to Disapparate. All was well, perhaps his instincts were wrong.

“Where the blazes have you been?” a man’s shout pulled his attention back toward the Leaky Cauldron where the brick portal had disgorged two more people. 

Arthur pivoted toward the annoyed hit wizard who was now brandishing his wand at the late arrivals: a large wizard in green Healer’s garb and Hermione in white. “Get moving, now!” To his credit the Healer who had been moving back to the portal whirled around - an impressive and unexpected move for a man of his size. 

Harry was too far away to hear the exchange but the Healer took Hermione’s arm and made it clear he was going to escort her to the centre. “Good on him,” Harry said quietly.

Pale, eyes shadowed, and hair pulled into an austere bun there was a hesitation to Hermione’s stride and she did not acknowledge anyone other than her companion. She shifted her St Mungo’s-issued satchel from her left to right shoulder before slipping her arm back into the Healer’s whether for balance or comfort, he could not tell. She looked as tired as Harry felt. They weaved through the group and made for the doorway and a smiling Minerva McGonagall. 

By this time the detainees had reached the Centre, and were forming orderly lines to be counted. The Hit Wizards from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement never missed a chance to prolong the ordeal in public. 

“Potter! Over here,” the familiar voice of McGonagall beckoned. Beside her, Snape’s head turned in surprise at the invitation. “Oh, relax Severus. It’s a conversation, not a war,” she chided, her words meant for him alone but carrying clearly. 

Harry could take the coward’s way out and Disapparate as if he hadn’t heard, or he could be an adult and have a pleasant conversation with McGonagall, Hermione, and possibly have his bits hexed off by Snape even though **he** had no part in the new laws. He crossed the street, threading through the detainee lines. Ahead of him the Healer patted Hermione on the shoulder. 

“Minerva, Severus, always a pleasure. _Dies dolorem minuit_ , Hermione,” he said in parting. 

“ _Serviam in caritate_ ,” she replied in a soft tone which turned to confusion as her mentor chuckled. 

“ _Me vivo, serviam_ , Hermione. Unless you were addressing Severus, of course,” he laughed, looking at Snape whose already thin lower lip disappeared. Any first year Potions student could tell you it meant he was not amused. 

“I’m sorry, Healer Cuthbert. I meant no offence - what did I say?” she asked, puzzlement turning into embarrassment. 

“Later, Hermione. We’ll need to put serious effort into your Latin now that you’ve been accepted in the higher programmes,” McGonagall jumped in to change the subject. “Potter, have you met Professor-Healer Cuthbert, Director of Education at St Mungo’s?” she grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward out of the Healer’s copious shadow. 

“An honour, sir. I am grateful for your service to our community, especially in these times of transition,” Harry replied formally, shaking Cuthbert’s hand. Being the spouse of a high-ranking Ministry official had meant mastering the art of changing personas on demand. Over Cuthbert’s shoulder McGonagall beamed, Hermione’s cheeks were still flushed, and Snape regarded him with an unnerving stare. 

“The honour is all mine, Harry Potter!” Cuthbert punctuated his words with a Hagrid-worthy slap on the back. 

_Ouch_ , Harry mouthed at Hermione to make her laugh. A weak smile was as much as she could manage.

“Well, I have to be off if I mean to be back in time for evening rounds.” 

“Good night, sir,” Hermione called after him. “Oh, Harry it’s so good to see you!” She extended her hand, and he took it in his briefly, releasing it after an affectionate squeeze. He knew not to expect anything more. It was worth more than her life to be seen displaying affection for any man who was not her betrothed. Hugs had to wait until they had privacy. 

“What was that?” Snape emphasised each word, finally acknowledging his presence. “Times of transition?” he spat. 

_I should have just Disapparated,_ he told himself. Face to face with Severus Snape, a man who had even deeper reason to be enraged by the name Potter after the laws were enacted could end no other way than with a disaster. 

Harry looked Snape directly in the eyes, inhaled deeply, and opened his mouth to say… something.

Next to them the building exploded.


End file.
